The Scarred Ones
by rejooc
Summary: Sherlock has returned from Serbia after two years of working to take down Moriarty's network. He is scarred, hurt, and quite alone in a London that is unfamiliar now, and John takes Mycroft's advice to learn about what exactly is on Sherlock's mind.
1. Chapter 1

It took time for Dr. John Watson, formerly of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, to realize why his dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, seemed so different after having been gone for two years. Of course, Dr. Watson first assumed that he had simply not seen him for so long that he had forgotten the quirks of the famous consulting detective. But it quickly became apparent that Sherlock had been doing more than he let on during his time _in cognito_.

Upon his surprise arrival in London and less-than-amicable reunion with Dr. Watson, Sherlock had explained that he had taken the opportunity of his supposed death to take down what remained of Jim Moriarty's underground network. This had, he explained, taken the entire two years to accomplish and upon completion of this work he had returned to London immediately.

Although Sherlock didn't say so, Dr. Watson was quite certain there was a new wall that had been built between the friends, one which Dr. Watson hoped to tear down, like so many before. When they had first met, Sherlock was a distant man, quite engaged with his own thoughts and unperturbed by the lack of social interactions in his day-to-day life. But of course, that had all changed when they met in Bart's Hospital, some years previously, and had immediately arranged to become flatmates on Baker Street in a unit managed by the strange and quirky Mrs. Hudson (who was their landlady and not their housekeeper).

The friends had lived together in relative comfort until Sherlock's supposed death after a confrontation with Jim Moriarty on the roof of the same hospital where Sherlock and Dr. Watson had met. Now, upon his eager return to London and the flat where he and Dr. Watson had solved so many cases together, Sherlock found his friend engaged- quite literally- with a woman he had never met.

Of course, Sherlock was quickly taken in by Mary Morstan's charm and intelligence (despite the fact that she later turned out to be a former assassin with a terrifying skill set), and he had no problem with the relationship in that regard. Unfortunately, happiness for his friend did not save Sherlock from the terrible loneliness that would invade 221B Baker Street; where Dr. Watson had previously sat remained only a battered old chair and an empty decanter.

Dr. Watson, of course, had no way of knowing that far beyond these feelings alone, Sherlock was suffering as near to PTSD as could be expected of a man of his caliber and rationality. He had never asked Sherlock for details of his time "abroad" as they said, but couldn't help noticing the signs of trauma, not so different from those that Sherlock had saved Dr. Watson from himself just a few short years previously.

"Can you tell me what happened? Can you tell me what happened to Sherlock?" The doctor, as worn as ever, with his firm military eyes and squared shoulders, met the unwavering look of the elder of the Holmes brothers.

"Stay the night, Dr. Watson." Mycroft finally responded, glancing down at the floor and swinging his umbrella forcefully, betraying his inner turmoil against his otherwise calm demeanor.

"I'm sorry?"

"Stay the night at Baker Street, and tell me what you learn."

True to style, Mycroft did not wait for a response, preferring to turn on his heel and walk out of the old warehouse they had agreed to meet in. Dr. Watson was left alone, again it seemed, with nothing but his questions.

When Dr. Watson knocked on the familiar door of his former flat, he felt extremely silly, not least of all because no one answered. It seemed quite odd to stand on the front step of your own home and Dr. Watson did, apparently, consider this place home still. He thought of Mary who had been so encouraging of his mission that he was quite sure she knew something he didn't, and huffed.

He opened the door.

"Well I wondered if you were ever going to come in. Why'd you knock, anyway?" Mrs. Hudson asked loudly, leaning against the railing of the stairs, having, it seemed, come out of her own flat just enough to see when Dr. Watson would finally decide to come in.

"I wasn't sure if I was allowed to just... _come in._ " He responded finally, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Of course you are, John," her eyes softened and Dr. Watson relaxed slightly, "you're always welcome at Baker Street. Would you like some tea?"

"That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson."

"Perfect, I'll get biscuits, too. But just this one time, John, I'm not your housekeeper." Turning and retreating back into her flat, Mrs. Hudson was gone, and Dr. Watson smiled slightly, feeling as though he had entered not only his old home but also, in a way, his old life.

Dr. Watson started up the stairs, contemplating what he might say first, but thinking all the same that Sherlock was already probably aware who was here, familiar as he was with the sounds of every set of footsteps. His instinct proved correct when the door to 221B swung open just a moment before Dr. Watson reached the top of the steps, and he could see Sherlock's shadow as he returned to his chair in front of the fire.

"All right then, Sherlock?" He asked lightly, closing the door behind him and removing his coat. He suddenly wished he'd brought chips or _something_ when he did a quick survey of the kitchen. Quite empty and quite...sad...the kitchen that had once been so full of chemistry equipment and frankly dreadful experiments was devoid of any indication of life at all. It would seem Sherlock had not eaten at the flat since returning to London the week before and Dr. Watson wondered despairingly if his dear friend had eaten at all.

"All right." Sherlock answered, his deep voice weaker than Dr. Watson remembered. "This is a surprise."

"Is it?"

"Not really, but then there's not many things that surprise me. I suppose I didn't expect you here tonight, though. Just, ah, coming to pick something up?" Sherlock tried to stand, pushing himself out of his chair and fluttering his hands as if he wanted to clean something up but wasn't quite sure where to begin. He was very frail, though, and Dr. Watson considered further that his friend had likely not eaten and was likely quite high.

The silence was palpable as the two men avoided each others' gazes and, it seemed to Dr. Watson, avoided saying what they needed very much to say.

"Shall we go out to eat then?" Sherlock looked instantly relieved at the thought.

"Very well. Chips?"

"Chips."

Dr. Watson watched Sherlock collect his things, shedding his robe on the floor in the hall and struggling very hard to keep his balance as he leaned down to pick up a pair of trousers to replace the pajama bottoms he seemed to have been wearing for a very long time.

Finally dressed, Sherlock met Dr. Watson and the two headed downstairs.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson gasped, running out from her flat again, "You're going out?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, John's here."

"But look at you! You haven't left in days!"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson! John's here." Sherlock avoided the eyes of the two people who, in that moment, had very different ideas of how Sherlock had been doing since his return to London, and gathered his coat and scarf and left, leaving the door open for Dr. Watson to follow, which he did after only a moment's awkward hesitation.


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. Watson had hoped that the fresh air of London and the city lights beaming down might renew the vigor that seemed to have departed the famous—and infamous—Sherlock Holmes, but it seemed to be the opposite. As they strolled down the sidewalk—Dr. Watson insisting that it would be nicer to walk than to catch a cab—it seemed that the streetlights only emphasized Sherlock's gaunt cheeks and drawn eyes. While Sherlock had always been a man of impeccable hygiene and grooming practices, he seemed now to be a dirty, unshaven man with matted hair and a sad gait.

Certainly, Sherlock noticed the sidelong glances coming from the nervous army doctor, but he said nothing and pressed his lips into a thin line, walking as if he were in pain and pressing the silence with the very mystery of his character. Dr. Watson worried whether drugs were to blame and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps Sherlock did _not_ notice, and was in fact oblivious to the nuances of the world he had once been so attuned to.

He opened his mouth to speak.

And shut it again.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock asked, finally, putting a hand out to the doctor's chest, silently asking them to slow down.

Dr. Watson didn't comment on this implicit request, doing his best to refrain from any reaction that would betray his concern. Tall, lanky, and ever oblivious to the needs of others, Sherlock was always quick, walking hastily about London as if he had some great purpose in his direction, which, if Dr. Watson was honest, he always seemed to have.

"Yes, what?"

"You are observing, but not seeing, and you are wondering what you are not seeing. Would it not be better simply to ask?" He looked as though he wanted to smile, but his mouth only twitched at the corner and he returned his hands to his coat pockets. Something on his face seemed to indicate trouble to Dr. Watson, whose soldier instincts often warned him of danger before he could detect it himself, and whose medical instincts often warned him of other problems in advance, as well.

His hands clenched into fists again and he took a moment to breathe and unclench them, just as his therapist had taught him.

 _You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist._

It seemed like years ago that the two men had sat in a cab together and Sherlock had explained just how he had deduced so much about a man he'd just met, and of course it was. It had been years since they'd solved their last crime. And years since Sherlock Holmes jumped from the roof of Bart's Hospital in front of his best friend on the ground below.

 _This phone call, it's, um… It's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?_

 _Leave a note when?_

 _Goodbye, John._

Dr. Watson shook his head and closed his eyes, unable to stand the fiery gleam of his friend's blue ones. He remembered the blood—fake blood, he had later learned—that had run down those same blue eyes just two years ago, and had to force himself to breathe normally.

"John." That soft voice that had always pushed Dr. Watson out of his own trauma now shook with its own.

"You were dead. And you came back."

Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet, his lips pressed into a line again, his face pale.

"But you haven't really come back, have you?"

The two men stood in silence, neither able to meet the other's eyes, but neither able to look away for long. They hadn't really changed much. Dr. Watson had only recently shaved his mustache and his clean face was set in a firm scowl that spoke to the conflict of anger and grief that gnawed at him. It really was no surprise that Sherlock had deduced his military service just from looking at the man. His stance, his posture, his features set in stone but somehow so soft as if he had spent as much time scowling as he had crying. Sherlock's appearance was different, of course. His normally clean face bore the faint stubble of a man whose diet did not permit a healthier display of facial hair. His eyes were sunken but bore the same crystal clarity as ever and it was apparent that he saw exactly as much as he ever had.

Which meant, of course, that he saw right through John Watson.

"No," he finally whispered, "But I haven't come back to the same London, either."

The stood for another moment before Sherlock raised an arm and hailed a cab.

_X_X_

It wasn't until they pulled up outside the familiar restaurant that Dr. Watson finally reoriented himself to the world around him. He couldn't help a laugh when he saw where they were.

"'A Study in Scarlet,' I believe?" Sherlock confirmed, smirking at his friend as they faced the restaurant they had shared a meal while on their first case together. Dr. Watson pushed aside the image of shooting the cabby that tried to poison Sherlock and settled on the feeling of surprise that Sherlock almost remembered the name of the blog post about it.

"Pink." He said, laughing, as they approached the small building.

Taking a seat, the same seat they had taken all those years ago, the two men ordered food and waited for their meal.

Sherlock, it seemed, ordered as much food as Dr. Watson had ordered the first time they'd been here. He remembered being simply ravenous that first night, not hardly having eaten since his return to London, struggling as he was with the PTSD that followed him home from Afghanistan.

He was glad that Sherlock seemed to be eating more than he had for a while, as well.

For a while, it seemed like old times and the two were able to chat as normal. Quickly, however, they ran out of things to say that properly avoided the things they knew they needed to talk about.

"So. Mary, then? I mean you're marrying Mary?"

"Ah, yes. That's the plan."

"That'll be nice. Yes. I mean marriage is sort of sham and ultimately will doom the species but I'm glad that you seem happy." He seemed to start a smile and then realize he'd said something wrong and frowned again. "I'm sorry, I only meant that I'm happy for you."

"Right."

Silence again.

"What about you? You doing anything exciting now that you're back? Or doing any…one…exciting?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Well you have a flat to yourself now. You could have a woman over. Or The Woman. Or another woman."

"Or no women. You know I'm married to my work, John."

"Right but you don't exactly seem to have been doing much of that."

Silence.

"I'm sorry." It was Dr. Watson's turn to apologize but he knew that 'sorry' didn't mean much to Sherlock Holmes and bitterly regretted having said something so harsh.

"No you're not." Sherlock whispered, staring out the same window where they'd laid eyes on the killer cabby and then chased down some poor American bloke on vacation. "And you're right, too. You're always right." Just a whisper.

"Not always. I wasn't right about you, Sherlock."

The detective's eyes turned back to his friend, who was frowning at his hands and avoiding eye contact again.

"I'm staying tonight," Dr. Watson finally said. "Let's go back." He put a hand in the air for the waiter, who merely waved them away. "Right. Forgot he doesn't charge you."

The city lights seemed poisonous to a sad Dr. Watson who stared out the window at a London that seemed, now, to betray him. Of course, that was silly. But Sherlock's words hurt to hear and he worried that the city wouldn't save the man who loved it so much and who knew every turn and street-sign and member of its vast homeless network. How was he supposed to save his friend when he couldn't even see what ailed him? He wasn't, it seemed, a very good doctor at all.

Stepping onto the familiar curb outside 221B, Dr. Watson felt as though he had done nothing at all to help his friend, although he was certainly more convinced that he needed help.

Without a word, they entered the building and headed upstairs to their unit. _The_ unit, Dr. Watson reminded himself firmly. The flat that Sherlock Holmes occupied alone and very sadly.

Unfortunately, Dr. Watson had forgotten the present state of the flat and his face darkened when they entered.

"You never said," Sherlock asked, sinking into his chair as though it was quite a relief to finally sit, although they had been sitting just a few moments before, "were you here to pick something up?"

Dr. Watson blinked, surprised. "No," he finally said, "I'm here to stay the night. Thought you wouldn't mind if I came around?"

Sherlock's eyes were guarded as he surveyed his friend. "Of course not, John. 221B is your home in many respects and will be as long as I occupy it, I'd imagine. "

"Thank you. I should think so, as well."

Awkward as ever, Dr. Watson finally crossed the room and sunk into the chair across from Sherlock, who had closed his eyes as if to block out a painful memory that cropped up suddenly and unwontedly. He watched as Sherlock's face moved—twitched, rather—and finally settled. Dr. Watson considered himself fairly devoid of a more strongly poetic streak but the vivid image of a broken child resigned to waiting out a bad storm by crouching in it came to mind and the comparison to the great Sherlock Holmes was a heartbreaking one.

"I think," Sherlock finally said glancing at his watch, "that it is time for bed."

Dr. Watson kept his eyes down. "Right." He finally said.

"Your room is still yours to use, John. Goodnight."

And with that the detective stood and left for his room, walking with a limp that Dr. Watson hadn't noticed before.

"What happened to you, Sherlock?" He whispered to himself before following his friend down the hall and entering his old room, collapsing on the bed without changing his clothes.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn't unusual for Dr. Watson to wake in the middle of the night, cold sweats soaking his sheets as his frantic shivers died in the stillness of the realization that he was not, in fact, back in Afghanistan. However, this night was indeed unusual in that it wasn't his own screams that woke him. Somehow the sound of agony ripping from the lips of the most rational and truly human man he had ever met shook Dr. Watson more than the pain of his own trauma, and the man was out of bed with a hand on the door knob before he realized precisely what he was doing.

He realized quickly, upon opening the door, that the screams coming from the bedroom of Sherlock Holmes had been dreadfully muffled by the distance of hallway and solid wood of two doors, when they grew exponentially louder as he entered the hall. Dr. Watson's chest shook frantically as adrenaline, born of fear-training and gunshot, pumped through his body and prepared him for a very different kind of war.

 _You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it._

At the time, with a psychosomatic limp and a nervous tick in his hand, Dr. Watson had been quite surprised to find that Mycroft Holmes was right. His sheer terror in this moment, his shaking hand on the doorknob of Sherlock's room, came from a very different place, then.

Dr. Watson then did something entirely against his instinct. He paused.

Mycroft had told him to come here to learn what had happened to his dear friend and in that moment, standing in a dark hallway in his wrinkled clothes from the day before, he realized that he had absolutely no idea what his friend was even capable of. What would Sherlock do?

With as much reason as he could muster, he began making deductions.

 **A limp.** Psychosomatic? It seemed unlikely; Sherlock Holmes was too well in control of his own mind to suffer this sort of issue. Actual injury then.

 **Behaviour.** Drugs? Probably. Just drugs? Unlikely. He had had his wits about him to clean the apartment in the moment before Dr. Watson entered, likely an indication that he was not so far into drugs that he was detached from reality. But what then?

 **Dinner.** Sherlock had been ravenous and the kitchen a mess, clearly he hadn't eaten for a while before Dr. Watson came around. Fasting? Doubtful, Sherlock was certainly not religious. He was known to forget to eat when he was high, but again he didn't seem high enough for that.

 **Pain.** Pain? Sherlock had had trouble getting in and out of his chair in the living room and getting dressed had taken him more time than Dr. Watson ever remembered him taking before.

The screams continued and Dr. Watson could faintly hear whimpers as though Sherlock was begging between outbursts of terror. He thought briefly of Irene Adler. Not that kind of begging.

 _That suggests the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic - wounded in action, then._

Wounded in action?

The screaming!

 _You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable._

Dr. Watson, careful as ever, opened the door to Sherlock Holmes' bedroom. He moved silently to sit beside his writhing friend on the same bed he had helped to deposit him when he was drugged, high, wounded, and more. The agony on Sherlock's face was unbearable but Dr. Watson knew his role here was not to fix his friend, but to help him, and he placed a gentle hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

 _I don't have friends, John. I just have one._

Sherlock woke with a start and seemed to break down when he saw the former army doctor sitting beside him, the deep lines of his face etched with hot fear. Not the sort of cold worry that carves lines into the faces of old women who have lost too many children, not the sort of warm concern that softens stern eyes and brings gentle smiles to worn lips, but the desperate ugly fear that springs tears from bloodshot eyes down a puffy face that can't help the frown that looks more like a grimace than a sadface. John Watson, the army doctor returned home after a traumatic wartime injury, was afraid.

 _You are the best, and wisest man that I have ever met. Yes of course I forgive you._

Sherlock cried for a long time before he could say anything much. He simply cried into his hands and begged not to have to go to sleep again. Dr. Watson was quite sure he wasn't fully awkwae yet but had no intentions of putting the famous detective back to bed.

"Shh, Sherlock, you don't have to go to bed. It's alright now, I'm here. You're home."

When he finally resumed his more typical state, he cleared his throat and looked terribly embarrassed. Dr. Watson thought for a moment before simply scooching closer and hugging Sherlock tightly.

"So we should probably talk then." He said, releasing Sherlock and leaning back.

"Right. Ah. Where to begin." Sherlock laughed without humor and stared down at himself without really seeing anything.

The night seemed very quiet as Sherlock began to explain what it had required of him to take down Moriarty's network. Although he tried his best to gloss over the torture he had received in Serbia and other countries around the world, Dr. Watson gathered enough information to feel sick, hating himself for not seeing it sooner. It was a long time after Sherlock was finished before Dr. Watson said anything.

"Have you, ah, seen a doctor?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Have you seen a doctor? I haven't seen any wounds on you but I don't fancy you've been the most caught-up on your medical care, and Mycroft doesn't seem the type to consider these things either."

Silence.

"When I first arrived, yes. There were a number of stitches required and some skin grafts, nothing major."

"Skin—" Dr. Watson swallowed hard. "Show me."

Those eyes. Those careful blue eyes that searched endlessly, though they saw everything.

"Are you quiet certain you wish to see, John?"

The doctor merely nodded.

Turning, and pulling the back of his pajama shirt over his head, Sherlock revealed what used to be the smooth skin and slender muscles of his back, where only thick red welts and deep cuts remained.

Dr. Watson checked out of his personal perspective—he couldn't handle that process at the moment—and focused on the medical perspective.

"Lacerations, abrasions, burns, evidence of broken ribs, Sherlock how did you survive?"

"I didn't think I would." He whispered past the tears that had sprung back to his eyes. "I really didn't think I would." He returned his shirt to its normal place.

Dr. Watson was quiet.

"I didn't ever contact you, John, because I wasn't sure whether I'd come back. The opportunities were rare and fraught with danger anyway and I couldn't risk putting you in harm's way, nor did I want to put you through that grief again. Of course, I had no idea what my death would mean to you."

"No idea—" Dr. Watson shook his head but was quiet.

"Mycroft and I had discussed what to do in case of my death and what arrangements should be made for my belongings here as well as what to tell you. He would, should I die, inform you of the truth of my jump from Bart's Hospital and explain the circumstances of my actual demise."

"And he agreed to that?" He shook his head, imagining getting this news from the colder of the Holmes brothers.

"Reluctantly. He felt it would be better for you to think I had died the way that I had and for you to be able to complete your grief in a more normal way."

"But?"

"But I didn't want you to think I was a fraud forever."

They were quiet.

"I never thought you were a fraud at all."

Between two men, whose respect and profound love for each other was stronger than most friendships could hope to achieve, there were no more words. How does one say what they think or feel to the man who can deduce anything? How does one explain his gratitude when he has been labeled a sociopath—among other things—and truly has no grasp of the words necessary to express the feelings of which he thought himself incapable?

Dr. John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, and Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, fell asleep in Sherlock's bed, each too grateful for the other's presence to say or think anything of it. It was, of course, quite natural for such friends to do the very thing that seemed so necessary to do. Sherlock slept soundly, for the first time in what was surely months, and Dr. Watson slept off the hot fear that trauma survivors so often bring home with them.

They ate breakfast the next day—each of them consuming frankly massive portions- and stood in the entrance of 221B Baker Street.

"Let's not say goodbye." Sherlock finally said. "That seems rather preemptive. I should think it would be best to begin again. I'm sure Scotland Yard is rightly desperate to have us back."

Dr. Watson laughed, thinking of how delighted Mary would be to have him out of the office and back in the field she knew he loved so much.

"Right. Monday, then?"

"Monday." Sherlock smiled, a sincere smile, and followed Dr. Watson out of the flat.

Sherlock went grocery shopping that day, the first day he was clean since his return to London, although certainly not the last first-day he would endure. Dr. Watson went home, to his second home, and to his fiancée. Mycroft Holmes received two texts, each simply reading "thank you."

Of course, one of them was signed "SH".


End file.
